


take me home (country roads)

by andibeth82



Series: of great powers & great responsibilities [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Dad Clint Barton, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Road Trips, Seriously just give Clint every young Avenger to adopt, Teen Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: “Hear me out, okay? What if I had a different proposition?”In the end, Clint’s really not sure how he gets roped into going on a road trip with Peter Benjamin Parker. He suspects it’s one part dad guilt, one part wife guilt, one part stir-craziness that he won’t admit in front of his wife and children, and one part a son and daughter who look at him with dreamy eyes when he mentions he’s going to spend some time with Spider-Man.





	take me home (country roads)

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "Spider-Man: Homecoming sounds like it's going to be a roadtrip kind of thing and I really want to write a story about Peter taking a roadtrip. Also, I love Clint being a dad, I need to work that in."
> 
> Also, I've been saving this fic title forever, wanting to use it for a Clint-centric fic that I couldn't figure out how to work through. I'm glad I finally found a home for it.
> 
> Set after Civil War. Thanks to spectralarchers for talking me through a few ideas and some of the finer geographical points of roadtripping (man, it's been awhile for me since I roadtripped.)
> 
> Warnings for slight animal harm (specifically, hunting as a form of food).
> 
> __
> 
>  
> 
> _take me home, down country roads_  
> 

When Tony called Clint and asked him to come give some lessons, Clint’s response had been a very firm but empathetic _no_.

“Seriously,” Tony said, and it sounded like he was crunching celery or carrot sticks over the phone. ( _Since when are you such a health nut?_ Clint thought haughtily). “I thought you, like, _craved_ that whole adventure thing. Not to mention that whole showing off thing.” 

“Have you ever spent your days chasing around an eight year old and a six year old while also trying to make sure a one and half year old doesn’t kill himself or eat bleach?” Clint asked bluntly, sticking a bluetooth in his ear so he could help Laura with the dishes. “I _have_ adventure. Every day. So much adventure that I’m taking an Advil every night. And I think I’m done showing off after that stunt you all pulled at the airport.” 

“I can’t take back the airport but come to my place and I’ll give you a suit or something to protect your old bones,” Tony said. “I just need you to help me with some training. I can’t be around all the time. Rogers and Wilson have abandoned me. Wanda’s shacking up somewhere with my android --”

“Tony.” 

“Sorry,” except Tony didn’t sound sorry at all. “Anyway, I’m serious. I could really use your expertise. Just take your bow out, show some cool tricks --”

“The tricks you make fun of,” Clint interjected as he smoothly removed a serving bowl from Laura’s hand and grabbed a dish towel in one fluid motion.

Tony groaned. “You have it coming half the time, Barton. You shoot a _bow and arrow_. I don’t do it to be mean.”

“Look, Tony.” Clint put the bowl on the counter, kissed Laura quickly, and walked towards the fridge, putting his hand against the cold metal. “I really don’t see how much I can help. I’m not even supposed to be away from home right now with this house arrest thing. And I am _definitely_ not supposed to be away from home and playing around with you.”

“Well, in that case…”

“ _Tony_.” 

“Hear me out, okay? What if I had a different proposition?”

 

***

 

Tony sets up a Skype call that Clint agrees to take in the five free seconds he has between making sure Nathaniel isn’t destroying the walls, while Lila and Cooper are occupied with sandwiches under Laura’s careful supervision. Truthfully, the only reason Clint takes the call at all is because he feels like he has to be nice to a young kid, and, okay, also because when he mentions it to Laura while whining, she gives him a look that makes him feel like absolute shit.

“Did he even tell you what this call is about?” Laura asks when she sticks her head out of the kitchen.

Clint shakes his head. “No. He just said he wanted me to talk about a few things, maybe it’s stuff about training even though I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, let me know,” Laura says, but her words are drowned out by a primal-sounding scream from his daughter that Clint knows means _my brother did something to me and I hate his guts_.

“You got it,” Clint says, adjusting the laptop on his legs. Nathaniel, who is sitting in a playpen next to him, giggles through his pacifier and waves his tiny hands joyfully.

“Wish I had your disposition right now,” Clint mutters at his child as the Skype tone starts to bleed through the computer speakers, ringing incessantly.

When Peter appears on the screen after a bit of bad connection buffering, Clint’s prepared for a question about being an Avenger. He’s prepared for questions about Berlin, about fighting, about working with Tony or Steve.

He’s absolutely not prepared for Peter to tentatively ask Clint if he’ll drive him back to New York by way of a road trip.

“No.” Clint takes off his reading glasses and throws them on the couch. “Absolutely not.”

“But Mr. Stark said --”

“ _Mr. Stark_ doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Clint says testily. “I’m retired, okay? And I’ve got kids of my own to worry about.” As if to prove his point, Lila screams again from the kitchen while Cooper laughs manically, clearly proud of whatever devious thing he’s inflicting on his sister. He takes a deep breath in the midst of the chaos and lets it out slowly, trying to make his voice sound more apologetic than he feels. “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m not trying to be mean, and I don’t know what Tony said to you, but I can’t take you on some random road trip.”

“Come on!” Peter sits back in defiance, crossing his arms with a big pout. “I thought you were supposed to be the _cool_ Avenger!”

Clint sighs again and rubs his eyes.

Next to him, Nathaniel, apparently feeling left out in all the commotion, spits out his pacifier and starts to join in with the yelling.

 

***

 

In the end, Clint’s really not sure how he gets roped into going on a road trip with Peter Benjamin Parker. He suspects it’s one part dad guilt, one part wife guilt, one part stir-craziness that he won’t admit in front of his wife and children, and one part a son and daughter who look at him with dreamy eyes when he mentions he’s going to spend some time with Spider-Man. 

“They never look at me like that,” Clint grouses as he shoves clothes into a bag. Laura leans against the doorway of the bedroom, one side of her mouth lifting into a half-moon.

“Yes they do. You just never notice, _Hawkeye_.”

“I completely beg to differ,” Clint says, turning back to his bag. “I don’t shoot lasers out of my hands or throw a shield.”

“And you don’t need to,” Laura reminds him, walking into the room and rubbing his back. “Maybe I should remind you that I didn’t marry Iron Man and that Captain America is totally not my type. And I definitely don’t want to marry Spider-Man.”

“Good, cause if you did, I’d be seriously worried,” Clint responds, reaching for another wrinkled shirt. “Kid’s barely older than Cooper. Also, don’t you think this is a little _too_ convenient?”

“What?” 

“This,” Clint repeats, gesturing to his bag. “The fact that Peter has been staying at another friend’s house in Iowa City and I just _happen_ to have the time and geographical distance to pick him up and drive him back to New York. Tony could have easily sent him a quinjet and instead, he’s using me as dad bait!”

Laura smiles again. “I really don’t think Tony’s thought that hard about this,” she says, wandering further into the room. “I mean, maybe he thought that it would be helpful for you guys to talk, but really, Clint. You’re not even in the field anymore and you’re acting as paranoid as Natasha.”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Clint says, ignoring the new pile of underwear Laura has taken from the hamper and dumped in his view, “that this feels like a direct attack on me. Let’s drag Barton out of retirement because he’s boring and he’s a dad and he can handle a teenager, oh no, not Scott Lang, no we couldn’t _possibly_ make him do anything he doesn’t want to do and his powers are way too important if he gets caught, but Barton’s not doing anything important!” He immediately ducks, his reflexes allowing him to dodge the book that’s flown at his head. “Ow!”

“You deserved it.” Laura pauses. “You know, it could be good for you.”

“What? Getting out of the house?”

“No,” Laura says conversationally, picking up the book from the floor and flipping through the faded pages. “Getting to know someone who will probably be an important member of the team, and who could look up to you.”

Clint snorts. “Right. Like anyone would look up to Hawkeye.”

Laura shrugs, seemingly undeterred by his self-deprecation. “Well, you have three kids who think the world of you and bring home “ _my daddy is the greatest”_ tributes every year at school, so maybe you should consider that there are people outside of this farm who _also_ appreciate you.” She hands him the book and he raises his eyebrow, finally noticing the cover.

“Moby Dick?”

Laura grins. “Last I heard, it was a very popular book to read in high school. You’re going to be spending time with someone in high school, so you might want to brush up on your skills.”

 

***

 

It’s raining heavily when Clint pulls out of the farm, his duffel bag tucked underneath one of the back seats, the trunk filled with extra camping gear, fishing rods, and his hunting bow. The wipers flash furiously in front of his face as he turns onto the main road, a grumpy and pressing reminder that he could be at home curled up on the coach with a book, or some new plans for the kitchen remodel. Instead, he’s driving countless hours to New York because Tony has suggested that he should take a fifteen-year-old superhero on a road trip.

Of course it’s Natasha who walks into the same damn diner when he stops only an hour later to gulp down coffee and order the greasiest burger in existence, along with a plate of cheese fries. He winces when he sees the profile that he would know anywhere; he wouldn’t exactly say he was prolonging the inevitable, but he knows he kind of is.

Also, he was really hungry.

“Jesus, do you have a tracker on me or something?” Clint asks when she slides into the booth seat across from him, removing her hat to let newly blonde hair cascade around her chin.

“Not so much a tracker as a wife and best friend,” Natasha says with a grin. “Also, you’re forgetting that I know every single diner between here and New York that we’ve ever stopped at. I know exactly where you’ll go to get your food, no matter how far you’re traveling. You, Barton, are a creature of habit, even if you won’t ever admit it.” She takes a fry off his plate and winks, sitting back and adjusting herself on the fake leather seat.

Clint sighs, knowing he can’t argue with her. “So, what? You got bored of chasing bad guys and running from the government, so you came to eat cheese fries with me?”

“Obviously,” Natasha replies dryly. “Please tell me the rumors are true.”

“Which one?” Clint asks sarcastically. “The one where I have a government-issued ankle bracelet that Tony’s somehow managed to take offline with an insane miracle of coding, or the one where I’m taking a fifteen year old superhero on a road trip?”

“That one,” Natasha says, her left hand making a ridiculous finger gun that Clint swears she must have picked up from Lila.

Clint groans. “Tony roped me into it. He’s staying like, right here, and he wants me to drive him back to New York because he doesn’t want to send a jet or whatever…I don’t know. It’s dad shit, okay? And seriously, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Syria or something.”

Natasha shrugs. “I got bored, so I made a detour. And like I said, I had to see for myself if what came through the grapevine from Stark was true.”

Clint picks up his coffee and glares. “You couldn’t have _called_?” 

“Nah, showing up this way is more fun, even after all these years.” She takes another fry. “I don’t envy you, though. Do you know how annoying it is to travel with Steve and Sam and deal with their whining? Traveling with a teenager is going to be _so_ much worse.”

Clint rubs his eyes and takes a long sip of coffee. “I’m suddenly wishing I had whiskey in this cup instead of caffeine.”

Natasha reaches into the pocket of her oversized sweatshirt and takes out a small bottle of vodka, throwing it across the table. “Probably won’t taste good with coffee, but don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Clint laughs as he catches the bottle with one hand and rolls it around in his palm. “I’d ask, but I kinda don’t want to know.”

Natasha’s lips turn up. “Do you know the first thing Laura ever said to me, after we really got to know each other and she felt comfortable having me in the house?” When Clint shakes his head, Natasha nods towards the bottle. “If I had one of these for every talk I had with my husband, I’d be an damn alcoholic.”

 

***

 

By the time Clint pulls up to the address he’s put into his GPS, he’s already had second, third, and fourth thoughts about what he’s doing. Those thoughts don’t change when he honks the horn and the door opens, revealing Peter, who is wearing a dark blue hoodie, jeans, and beat-up sneakers. Clint suddenly feels like he’s been tasked to this mission just because he’s got nothing better to do -- and, okay, maybe he _was_ happy to be out of the house, traveling like a free man and not someone whose ankle beeped every time he got further than 10 miles away from the farm. But it didn’t mean that just because he had a family, he was supposed to be the one who got stuck with doing the Avengers parent stuff.

The rain has tapered off in the time since Clint’s been driving and while there’s no longer water leaking from the sky, the mist and heaviness of the day’s weather hangs over him, suffocating him like a damp and muggy cloud and causing the hairs on his arm to stiffen uncomfortably. He gets out of the car as Peter walks up to him.

“Hey! Uh, hey, Mr. Barton -- Hawkeye --”

“Clint,” Clint says, already feeling tired. “Just call me Clint.”

“Right. Clint.” Peter swallows. “Um, sorry. It’s just that I usually call Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, and that’s what I’m used to.”

“Well, that would make sense, considering he’s the one who gave you your suit and everything, right?” Clint asks as he looks Peter up and down. “But I’m your teammate, not your boss or benefactor. So we don’t need to be so formal, yeah?”

Peter nods. “Yeah, got it. Um, well, thanks for picking me up, I really appreciate it.”

Clint snorts. “No problem.” He grabs Peter’s bag, noticing that he’s holding something between his fingers.

“What’s that?” 

“Oh.” Peter looks embarrassed, casting his gaze downward. “Um. It’s my passport.”

“Your passport.” Clint raises an eyebrow. “Peter, I’m taking you back to New York. I’m not taking you to Belgium or someplace where you need a passport.”

“Right, well.” Peter shoves the passport into the pocket of his sweatshirt hastily. “Never hurts to be prepared. I -- I mean, that’s what Aunt May always says.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, closing the back door after throwing his bag in and opening the door to the driver’s side with a sigh. “Come on, get in.”

Peter obeys, getting into the passenger seat as Clint slides into the driver’s seat. “Sorry,” he apologizes as he reaches for the key. “Just ignore those.”

Peter looks down as his foot bumps against a stray rubber duck, as well as a pile of school papers and a small pair of pink light-up sneakers. His foot manages to hit the sneaker soles and they start lighting up persistently in a show of blue and yellow, soft _pew pew_ sounds emitting from the rubber.

“My daughter’s shoes,” Clint explains as he pulls out of the driveway, glancing into the rearview mirror. “Everyone needs the latest stuff these days and I guess sneakers that make outer space sounds are hers.”

“Makes sense,” Peter says, stretching out in the seat. “So, uh, how far to New York, then?”

“According to my GPS?” Clint glances down at his phone. “About three days. With the way I drive? Probably closer to two and a half.” He finds himself smiling as he looks over at Peter. “Don’t tell my wife I’m going 90.”

“Sure, nope. No way. No telling Hawkeye’s wife.”

“Clint,” Clint says warily. “I told you, call me Clint. I’m not Hawkeye right now.”

“But you are,” Peter says, furrowing his brow in clear confusion. “You’re an Avenger.”

“I’m an off duty Avenger,” Clint corrects. “A very, very, _very_ off duty Avenger thanks to what happened at that airport.”

“Oh.” Peter winces, and shifts in his seat. “I didn’t...it was all kind of a blur.”

“Yeah, well. Not your fault. You didn’t know what you were doing.” Clint pauses. “If you were my kid, I’d be pissed at Tony for dragging you into that fight.”

There’s a long silence, and after they pass a couple of farms and a few cows, Peter finally speaks again. “If you’re not doing Avenger stuff, why do you have your bow?”

“That’s not --” Clint startles and takes his eyes off the road for five seconds. “How the hell --”

“Spidey senses,” Peter explains, gesturing towards the back seat. “I can hear the bow hitting up against stuff in the trunk. Hey, also, do you know when we might stop for food? I didn’t really eat a lot before I left. I got up too late.”

Clint closes his eyes briefly enough to ensure that he won’t run them off the road. “I’ve got some snacks in that brown bag. You can take some goldfish if you want. I want to get another three hours in before we stop again so we can hit a good cut off point tonight.”

“Cool. Okay, cool,” Peter says, rolling down the window. Clint feels the choking air hit his face and thinks of Laura smirking somewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter reminds him of Cooper -- the way he’s slouched against the window, the way his fingers are nervously twitching against his leg. The movements are so uncanny that if he starts to daydream, he can almost imagine that he’s driving his son to school, or to baseball practice. Clint turns his gaze fully to the road and switches on the radio to drown out his own thoughts.

“Teenagers.”

 

***

 

The hotel Clint stops at is in Naperville, just outside of Chicago. He passes a few higher end hotels like the Doubletree and Sheraton and keeps driving until he finds more modern (and cheaper) fare - a Hampton Inn that doesn’t look half bad considering there doesn’t seem to be many people staying there, judging by the lack of cars in the parking lot.

“Hope you weren’t expecting luxury,” Clint says as he turns off the engine. He bites down on a groan as he gets out of the car, stretching his legs, and motions towards the front door of the hotel. “Gonna check in. I’ll be back.”

In truth, he really hadn’t wanted to stop at a hotel or someplace where he could be potentially identified as “that rogue Avenger who is supposed to be at home with his family” because, well, he had the stupid ankle bracelet for a reason. But the drive to Ohio, where he had planned to stop, was too far a trip to make when he was already feeling tired. Fortunately, Clint’s not dumb enough to know how to cover his tracks; before he left he’d made sure to pull a few old IDs with aliases and enough cash so that he didn’t have leave a credit card trail.

The boy working the front desk looks older than Peter and younger than Cooper, which Clint finds strangely amusing. But it means that he doesn’t pay much attention to Clint, at least, not as much attention as he pays to the texts that are lighting up on the phone charging near the computer. He barely pauses to look up until he hands back the ID and a keycard.

“You’re in room 314. Thanks, Mr. Brandt.”

Clint waves, nods, and turns to go back to the car. Peter’s still sitting in the front seat, his hands busy with what Clint recognizes as a new-fangled Nintendo console. He stops himself from smiling idly; Peter and Cooper would probably get along better than he initially thought if the kid’s first instinct to busy himself was to go straight to video games.

“We’ve got a key,” Clint announces as he gets back in the driver’s seat, moving the car closer to the building that houses all the 300-numbered rooms. He pulls his bag from the backseat easily, opens the door, and surveys the space in front of him -- too similar to every trip he’s taken his family on in the past few years, down to the two twin beds, tiny television, portable coffee maker, terrible black and white Chicago-themed photos on the walls, and the small bathroom showing just enough floor space to comfortably move around. Clint figures he’ll take it; if he had wanted to splurge on luxury he certainly could have. Laura would have probably commended him for giving Peter the best treatment. Also, he’s damn tired, and he’s going to get a good night’s sleep if it kills him, especially if he plans on making the five hour drive that will keep them on track to reach New York in the time he wants. He sits down on the bed and starts taking off his shoes.

“Why do you have that?”

Clint is about to ask what Peter’s talking about, before he realizes Peter is standing in front of him looking down at his leg.

Clint sighs. “It’s my ankle bracelet.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “Is that because --”

“Yes,” Clint says, cutting him off. He really doesn’t feel like having this conversation tonight, especially with a teenager. He’d already had enough conversations, arguments and yelling with Cooper to last a lifetime.

“Is it bad?” Peter asks, clearly not getting the message that Clint would rather just change and go to bed.

“It’s livable,” Clint replies, which is almost a lie. “I can’t go certain places that are too far from my house and it’s a pain in the ass to walk around with and shower with, but if this is the worst thing they can do to me, I’ll take it. I’d much rather be the one shackled to the government than my family being taken and tortured somewhere.”

“But you’re an Avenger.”

Clint snorts. “First rule of being an Avenger, kid -- you can’t just answer everything that seems out of the ordinary with that wide-eyed ‘but I’m some big shot superhero’ surprise face. Second rule of being an Avenger -- I don’t know what movies you’ve been watching, but just because you’re a superhero, it doesn’t mean you get a free pass on the rules.”

Peter bites down on his lip, looking at Clint’s ankle. “So you’re not going to get in trouble now?”

Clint shakes his head. “Tony managed to do some security bypass that will last for about 3-4 days -- kinda why I have a time limit, don’t take it personally -- anyway, I’m off the grid for now so you don’t have to worry about your Spidey senses going crazy or whatever.”

Peter swallows. “Mr. Stark sent me back right away,” he says slowly. “I didn’t see what happened. I was too tired.”

“Not like you could’ve done anything,” Clint says, although he feels guilty about the words the moment they leave his mouth, especially once Peter’s face falls. “I mean, look. What I mean is, that wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t have been mixed up there in the first place.”

“I wanted to be there!” Peter bursts out defiantly, clenching his fists at his side. Clint can’t help it; he lets out a laugh and Peter looks annoyed.

“Sorry,” Clint apologizes. “That was just such a classic response that I could’ve sworn you were my son for a moment.”

Peter looks down at the floor, lowering himself so he can sit down on top of his duffel bag. “How many children do you have?”

“Three,” Clint answers, leaning back on the bed. “Cooper’s eight. Lila’s six. Nate’s one and a half.”

“Do they know what you do?”

“Not really,” says Clint. “Cooper knows a little. It’s getting harder and harder to lie to him, even though he’s still technically young. But he sees things and he’s perceptive -- got my wife’s traits, I guess -- and he’s the type of kid who won’t stop asking you a question if he’s curious or suspicious about something. Lila doesn’t know anything other than the fact that I travel and work, and Nate could care less about what I do as long as he’s eating something.” He smiles, unable to help the warm and fuzzy feeling that spreads through his insides when he talks about his family. “They’re good kids. I try to keep them out of this lifestyle as much as I can.”

“Because it’s dangerous?”

“Because it’s dangerous, and because not everyone wants to be a superhero,” Clint responds, closing his eyes. “Some people just want to live a normal life and not worry about looking over their shoulder or getting an ankle bracelet for their troubles. Now, if you want to use the bathroom, go ahead -- I’m passing out here in a second, and we’ve got a long drive tomorrow, and I’m used to being up early so don’t think you can sleep until ten.”

 

***

 

Clint’s on the road the next morning before seven, Peter napping on and off in the front seat as he drives through the rest of Illinois.

He’s realizing that Peter’s really not that bad. He asks too many questions -- he won’t seem to shut up when it comes to asking about previous missions and assignments, or places that Clint has been (Clint doesn’t know how much longer he can talk about what happened in Argentina) -- but he also doesn’t hesitate to point out random facts about a bridge’s structural makeup, or mention how fast a car is going because it contains a certain engine. It makes the drive a little less tedious, especially when they’re in the middle of nowhere, passing corn fields and water towers.

At a gas station outside of Chicago, they stop for a bathroom and snack break. Clint wanders to one of the shitty looking benches at the corner of the rest stop parking lot and calls Laura, keeping an eye on the people coming in and out of the small convenience store.

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” Laura says when she picks up. Clint thinks she sounds strange, and when his brain starts working again, he realizes that there’s no sounds of World War III going on in the background.

“Did you sell our kids while I was gone?” Clint asks, noticing the silence.

Laura laughs. “I wish. Coop’s at a friends house, Lila’s riding on the bike trail with my mom, and Nate is somehow sleeping. I actually figured your call would wake him up but so far, he seems to be okay. How are you doing?”

“Okay,” Clint says, fiddling with the belt loop on his jeans. “We’re around South Bend right now. We’ll hit another couple hours and stop for the night, then tomorrow it’s onto New York. I’ll be home after that.”

“Dare I ask how fast you’re pushing that speedometer?” Laura asks suspiciously. “You _are_ driving with a child.”

“No faster than when I’ve had to gun the gas pedal because our daughter was going to pee all over the backseat if we didn’t stop for a bathroom soon,” Clint replies smoothly.

Laura sighs. “I’m already worried about something happening with that stupid ankle monitor, Clint. I don’t need to worry about you driving into a ditch because you’re tired and don’t see some deer walking onto the road and you’re doing 100 miles an hour.”

“ _Relax_ ,” Clint says, exhaling into the slight breeze. “I’m fine. We’ll be fine, okay?”

“You better be,” Laura warns. “How is it going otherwise?”

“Fine, I guess.” Clint glances up to see Peter walking out of the convenience store holding a small plastic bag. “He’s not that bad. Has a lot of questions about Avengers stuff, but I think I can deal for another two days.” He swears he hears Laura stifling a laugh and frowns into the cell phone. “What?”

“Nothing,” Laura says, her voice almost playful. “I just know what that tone means.”

“What tone?” Clint asks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The tone my husband uses when he’s totally going to pick up another person to take care of even if he tries not to care,” Laura replies. Clint grits his teeth.

“Did Natasha tell you to say that?”

“No one tells me to say anything about my husband,” Laura responds cheekily. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Clint mutters. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Tell the kids I love them.”

“I will. Text me when you stop driving so I know you’re not dead,” Laura says before Clint hangs up the phone. He manages a quick _don’t worry, will do_ with a winking emoji so he doesn’t feel terrible about hanging up unnecessarily.

“Ready to go?” he asks Peter when he meets him back at the car. The plastic bag swings from Peter’s arm, and he reaches inside to pull out a bottle of coke.

“Thought you might want something,” Peter says, holding the coke out. “I heard you talking to your wife -- I think it was your wife? -- last night about a caffeine substitute because you didn’t want to drink too much coffee while driving.”

Clint doesn’t bother to ask how Peter heard his conversation from outside the room -- _freaking Spidey senses,_ he thinks warily -- and instead takes the can while cursing Laura’s words in his head.

“Thanks, kid.”

 

***

 

When Clint stops at the front of Cuyahoga Valley National Park, he doesn’t even bother to wonder if he should ask or worry about Peter. He simply slows enough to make sure that he’s accounting for the sudden change in landscape; the lush trees that hang over the pavement and dirt and the quiet breeze that snakes through the window Clint opens. When he gets to a small cabin, he shoves the car into park and lets it idle while he goes inside the lodge.

“Where are we?” Peter asks when Clint gets back into the car.

“Camping grounds,” Clint explains as he takes the car out of park and steers them further into the park. “Well, more accurately, a park. Cuyahoga Valley National Park.”

Peter turns and presses his face to the window, scrunching up his eyes at the sights before him. Clint continues driving, unable to contain the smile that falls over his face. Being home, in an area where everything was pretty much rural and camping and fishing and farming were part of the deal, it wasn’t like he didn’t get a chance to get out much, especially with being more or less forcibly retired. But being engrossed in nature and being immersed in its beauty and its simplicity was a feeling that Clint had always unconditionally loved. Natasha made fun of him for it on more than one occasion, even before she knew how he had grown up and what he was used to going home to every week.

“So we’re going camping?”

“We are,” Clint says as he peers out the windshield. “Hope you like bug infested tents.” When Peter looks concerned, he grins. “I’m kidding. Sorry. You’re going to have to get used to my dad humor. But if you wondered why you heard my bow --”

“I get it,” Peter says as Clint pulls onto another road and stops along a grassy reserve. He stops the car and gets out, immediately going to the trunk and popping it open to reveal his hunting bow, a tent, and the rest of his camping gear. As he pulls it all out and starts to set it up and lay it out, Peter also gets out of the car and looks on, intrigued.

“Ever been out of the city like this?” Clint asks as he starts to work on the tent.

Peter shakes his head slowly. “Not...not really. Just a trip or two with my aunt when I was little. And then my friend’s house in Iowa.”

Clint snorts. “Iowa City isn’t exactly better than Manhattan, but I see what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t grow up in Manhattan, I grew up in _Queens_ ,” Peter says scathingly.

Clint ignores him, pointing to the ground. “Which is why I’ll pitch the tent. But let’s get a fire going.”

“Yeah, alright!” Peter sticks his arm towards the ground but Clint’s faster, and grabs his wrist before he can unleash his web shooters.

“No,” Clint says firmly. “Pick up the sticks with your hands. You have to learn how to be a human every once in awhile, no matter what you can do with your powers.”

Peter’s mouth slides into a pout indicative of wanting to whine, but he bends down, picking up a couple of sticks before he moves on down the path. By the time Clint’s pitched the tent, Peter’s gathered an armful of large and small sticks, which he dumps near Clint’s feet.

“Not bad,” Clint says approvingly, inspecting some of the thicker ones. “You wanna find dinner?”

Peter gives him a wary look and Clint rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, putting his hand on his shoulder and steering him away from the tent. He grabs his bow and shoulders it.

“You can hunt here?”

“Erm.” Clint squints and shrugs. “Not technically. I mean, I’m sure there’s some laws that I’m going to break but by my calculation, no one else is around right now and you’re not going to tell on me, right?”

“I guess I’ll add it to the list,” Peter says sarcastically. Clint grins.

“Well, you’re learning, at least.”

He prepares his bow and nocks an arrow, looking up at the sky. His hunting bow is different than the bow he uses in the field; he’s not as used to it because he only uses it every so often. But it still feels familiar, and even just gripping the bowstring and hearing the twang of the arrow he shoots into the side of the tree as a practice shot ignites a rolling wave of emotions that make him realize it’s been too damn long.

“You _sure_ I can’t help?”

Clint sighs, recognizing the tell-tale pitch that he knows will turn into a complaint if he doesn’t give in. “Yeah, fine. Go ahead.”

Peter grins, wiping hair out of his eyes “See that rabbit?”

Clint turns and realizes that for as much as they could be annoying, Peter’s heightened senses were more useful than he’s realized. He hadn’t even heard the rabbit approach through the bushes, despite his trained hearing.

Clint nods and sticks his tongue between his teeth, aiming for the medium sized rabbit trying to blend into the forest.

“Tell me when you’re going to shoot.”

“You’re going to _hear_ it,” Clint mutters, but he manages to glance at Peter quickly before he releases the arrow. He makes the shot easily and as the rabbit falls onto the grass, Peter reaches out and lets his web shooters fly. Before Clint knows what’s happening, Peter’s secured the rabbit, successfully removing any evidence of their quick adventure, and drops it at his feet.

“Not bad,” Clint says with an approving look. “But you can’t start fire with web shooters, you know.”

Peter rolls his eyes as he follows Clint back to where they’ve pitched the tent, and Clint gives him instructions on how to start a fire using two sticks and putting just the right amount of pressure on them. He figures Peter doesn’t need to know all the gory details of cooking wildlife, so he keeps his work mostly hidden while Peter changes into something more comfortable in the tent and continues to stoke the fire.

“I can eat this if you want something else,” he says when he straightens up, having sufficiently worked the rabbit into something that doesn’t quite resemble a fuzzy creature. “There’s food in the trunk.”

Peter looks uncertain, but shrugs. “Can’t hurt to try, right? I mean, it can’t be worse than some of the places I’ve eaten in Manhattan.”

“Queens,” Clint corrects. Peter grins and pulls his sweatshirt more tightly around his shoulders while Clint puts most of the rabbit meat in the pan and holds it over the fire, watching it until it’s fully cooked.

“I know I wouldn’t really be here if I wasn’t Spider-Man,” Peter says after he takes a small bite of the meat. Clint gives him a confused glance, caught off guard by his sudden change of conversation.

“Who told you that?”

Peter shrugs. “No one. I just always knew it. If I didn’t have any Spider-Man powers, I wouldn’t even be cool enough to sit at a lunch table, let alone travel with an Avenger. I mean, you think Mr. Stark would even care about me? He wouldn’t even know I _exist_.”

“I know a little something about that feeling,” Clint says. Peter frowns as an owl hoots overhead.

“But you could _tell_ people you’re Hawkeye,” he points out. “I mean, you’ve already done a bunch of hero stuff. You don’t have to keep your job a secret. Like, _everyone_ knows Mr. Stark is Iron Man, right? So why don’t you tell them about what you do?”

“Because when I’m home, I’m home. I don’t have the duties that I have as an Avenger. And I have to choose whether I want that part of my life to be my life all the time,” Clint says, tracing circles into the dirt with a long stick. “I was never the person who let my whole life become about being a superhero. I knew Laura before I joined the Avengers.”

“But --”

“I’m on house arrest right now because I went too far and mixed up my family with my job. That’s on me.” He sighs, throwing the stick down. “I worked my whole damn life to keep my family secret, to keep my job away from my kids, my wife’s parents...the people who always honk at me in the carpool pick-up line. At home, I could give two craps if I had powers. In the field, though…” Clint shrugs. “I was a SHIELD agent. I was kind of brought into this whole mess because they needed someone who would fight. I didn’t have any powers that were really helpful, and I know that. It’s not as simple as just deciding if I want people to know I’m a superhero, Peter.”

Peter swallows in the silence. “What about your son?”

“Cooper?” Clint smiles wryly. “Like I said, I can’t hide this forever. One day he’ll figure out what I do for real. And then I’m going to have to make a decision.”

“Whether or not to have him become an Avenger?”

Clint snorts and then shudders. “God, no. Whether or not to really involve him in this life. The things I do. The places I go.” He pauses, dropping his voice. “The people I hurt, even when I don’t mean to.”

“I never wanted to get into this to hurt anyone,” Peter says hesitantly. He takes a little more meat out of the pan, as if he’s afraid the rabbit is going to come back to life, materializing out of thin air. “I just wanted to do cool things and help people. I could barely help anyone before I got these powers..no one even looked at me. So isn’t that what being a hero is? Helping people?”

“This is the first time you’ve really talked to someone, isn’t it?” Clint asks, staring into the campfire and letting the flames warm his face. “About all this superhero stuff? The first time you’ve thought about what it means? Before, it was just a lot of flying and punching and fights.”

He watches Peter nod slowly out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah. Well. I mean, I talked to Mr. Stark a little bit, but…” Peter trails off. “Not like this.”

 _Not like this_. Clint leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. _Goddamn it, Laura._

“You want my advice?”

Peter looks up in surprise. “Yeah. Course.”

“Okay.” Clint exhales and breathes in the sharp scent of pine and fire and sweaty moss. “Whatever you do -- the experiences, the fights, the choices you make -- they stay with you. They become a part of you. Most of us didn’t get a choice about when we made this our life. But you do have a choice. You get to decide when you want to understand and deal with that loss and that stress. And if it’s something you really want and can’t live without, I can’t tell you how to act when you want to use your powers.”

“But what if I _do_ want this, and I don’t know how to help it?” Peter asks a little miserably, a tone Clint only picks up on because he’s pretty sure he’s said it himself to Laura, despite not being a teenager.

“Then you think about _why_ you’re doing this,” Clint says, motioning to his hands. “If it’s because you really care about helping people and are okay living with the consequences, you’ll find a way to make it work with your head. And Peter.”

Peter looks up from the ground, where he’s been studying a pattern of grass. “Yeah?”

Clint smiles. “Try to talk to someone every once in awhile, okay? I know we’re all old birds around here, but it’s good to feel like you have people that you can trust.”

 

***

 

The night passes with hardly any excitement, save for the bear that Peter swears he heard marching by their tent around five in the morning (“ _I just know, okay?”_ he had said impatiently to Clint as they packed up their campsite. _“They walk a certain way. I can tell.”_ ) As they ready the car and start back on the road, making a quick stop for breakfast sandwiches and coffees at the first McDonalds they see, Clint realizes he’s not having as bad a time as he thought he would have, all things considered.

“Gonna be rid of me soon,” he says lightly as they start passing exits that Clint knows Peter might be more familiar with -- large green signs that point the way towards Delaware, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. “Hope you’re okay getting back to your old boring life.”

“School will start again soon, and then it definitely won’t be boring,” Peter says as he adjusts himself against his seatbelt. “You could stay and work at the Avengers place near me, couldn’t you?”

“I could, but my ankle bracelet magic is going to expire whether I like it or not, and I really don’t want to go back to that Raft,” Clint says. “Besides, I’ve got my own kid to get back to and take to school, and I’m sure my son is enjoying these few days of me not bothering him about the math homework he’s definitely not doing.”

Peter falls quiet and stays quiet for a long time as the road moves ahead of them. “Mr. Stark saved me once.”

“In Berlin?” Clint asks distractedly, changing lanes. Peter shakes his head.

“No. A few years ago, at the Stark Expo. I went to see some stuff with Aunt May, and I got caught in all the fights going on. I ran away...I tried to be cool and fight but if Iron Man hadn’t been there, I would have probably died from those robots.”

“Well, that’s Tony for you,” Clint says, trying not to sound as bitter as he feels, because _of course_ Tony was making an impression on someone before he was even part of the team. “There’s a reason why he’s practically the symbol of the Avengers.”

“Yeah.” Peter clears his throat. “I saw you, too. In New York.”

“Really?” Clint asks, surprised and then not, because he knows better than anyone how the media coverage from that day had been translated, even if he’d had to deal with it in a post Loki stupor. He thinks he might never forget Laura’s face -- then pregnant with Lila, the fear and horror that she hadn’t been able to conceal breaking over her features as she told him how she had watched the news, how scared she had been that he would miss his son’s birthday party, because they would be having a funeral instead of a celebration. It was the first time since he’d joined SHIELD that he’d ever heard her voice her fears so strongly.

Clint tries to turn his mind away from the past. “So you saw me during the battle?”

“Yeah. But, like, not when you were shooting,” Peter continues. “When you were helping those kids off the bus. Remember? You and the Black Widow, you saved a bunch of people who weren’t supposed to be there. You even did that before you fought an alien.” Peter looks down at his hands and then over at Clint, as if he’s suddenly embarrassed by how much he’s revealing. “It made me realize that I could help people one day even if I still wanted to do something more.”

For a moment, Clint’s not sure how to respond. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, a lump materializing in his throat, and he hates himself for the emotion welling up inside him.

“That stayed with you?”

Peter nods. “Yeah. Just thought you should know.”

Clint catches Peter’s eye, noting the shy, boyish grin. This time, he doesn't see Cooper -- he sees himself, telling whoever would listen at the bar, at home, at the odd job garage place he worked, that he wanted to be like the woman in the red, white and blue suit he saw on television -- the one who, when he finally got himself into a position where he could press someone knowledgeable about it, was told everything was strictly classified.

He sees himself, finding inspiration in someone he never thought he’d look up to, but who he realizes has had more of an impact on him than he would have expected.

“You know what, kid?” Clint asks as he reaches for his coffee again. “I think you’re going to do okay.”

 

***

 

Navigating through New York traffic is both the best and worst thing in the world. It reminds Clint why he never wants to live in a city ever again and why he appreciates the Midwest so much, but at the same time, he likes that it gives him a reason to feel angry and let off steam. He’s only half-aware of Peter trying to offer suggestions next to him, different routes and mentions like “ _if you take the midtown tunnel right now it’ll be backed up, but if you take the bridge you can avoid tolls, but also, it’s rush hour so traffic might be heavy._ ”

“I think I got it,” Clint says through gritted teeth as he switches lanes, slamming on the brakes almost instantly to avoid hitting a truck that’s just cut him off. Clint swears loudly as they both bounce forward in their seats. Peter looks over at Clint, and shrugs.

“I mean, if you want --”

“Don’t even think about it, Spider-Man,” Clint warns as Peter starts to roll down the window. Peter reluctantly rolls it back up and narrows his eyes, flouncing down in the front seat with his arms crossed.

“Fine. But joke’s on you when we get to the tunnel.”

 

***

By the time Clint hits the part of Queens that represents Peter’s neighborhood, he can almost feel the change in the teenager’s stance. Peter’s suddenly even more fidgety next to him, craning his neck forward and peering out the side window, tapping his foot impatiently while his mouth continually twitches into the tiniest of smiles.

And Clint gets it. It wasn’t a long trip, it wasn’t even a harrowing trip, but still. There was nothing like knowing you were coming home.

He slows the car as he drives through the neighborhood, passing multiple restaurants and bodegas and shops that range from hole-in-the-wall ethnic establishments to commercial staples like McDonalds and Wendys. Above him, the Astoria-bound trains rumble and crawl along the elevated tracks. 

“Not a bad place to grow up,” Clint observes as he approaches Peter’s building. “Always did like the city.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. Especially when aliens aren’t attacking it,” Peter adds with a grin. Clint can’t help but laugh as he stops the car between two other parked cars, putting his flashers on.

“Guess this is you.”

Clint notices that Peter suddenly seems a little reluctant to get out of the car. He moves slowly, gathering his things from the front seat and unbuckling his seatbelt. As he does so, Clint reaches over, opening the glove compartment. He roots through receipts and crumpled napkins and spare change until he finds a pen, then pulls out a business card he had taken from one of Lila’s friends’ mothers last week. He scrawls a number on it, handing it over. Peter takes it and looks at it with confused eyes.

“It’s my home number,” Clint explains. “I don’t exactly give it to people – hell, only certain Avengers have it. But if you need me for any reason, or if you just want to talk, or if you want to pay my son a visit one day, you know where to find me.” He gestures towards the card. “Just, you know, don’t go giving it out to thugs or aliens, okay? I already have enough to deal with.”

Peter smiles, tucking the card into the front pocket of his backpack. “Thanks, Hawkeye.”

Clint resists the urge to correct him, figuring it’s not worth it, and opens the door to stretch. Peter gathers his things from the backseat, while Clint goes into full dad-mode, giving the interior of the car a once-over and trying to make sure that nothing has been left behind. He spots one of Cooper’s baseballs wedged in between the passenger seat and the door and smiles; maybe he would pick up a new one for him on the way back before he was housebound again for five million years.

“Thanks,” Peter says when he’s removed all his things from the car. “Really. I mean, this was really nice. You didn’t have to drive me. I know Mr. Stark said --”

“I still believe that _Mr. Stark_ doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but this was a fun trip,” Clint says, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter looks up and grins.

“Hey, I mean, are you sure I can’t interest you in some of Aunt May’s cooking? Or we could get thai takeout!”

“Like I said, I’ve got my own homemade cooking to get home to,” Clint replies, despite the fact that his stomach groans loudly at the mention of thai. “Plus, my wife makes really amazing empanadas. But…”

“But?” Peter asks excitedly.

“But, I may need you to point me in the direction of Queens’ best iced coffee, so I can stay awake on the drive home.”

 

***

 

It's approaching evening when Clint finally makes his way back out of the city, figuring he’ll stop at one of the less expensive hotels somewhere between Pennsylvania and Delaware so that he can get up early and drive the rest of the way home with minimal stops. He’s long finished the extra large iced coffee that Peter had helped him procure from the deli down the block from his apartment, and has moved on to munching on Lays chips from an oversized snack bag. He takes out his phone and throws it on the seat next to him, dialing Laura and putting her on speaker. 

“Oh, there’s my husband,” Laura teases as Nathaniel says something unintelligible in the background. He thinks he can hear Lila speaking loudly, most likely trying to be heard over whatever cartoon she’s watching with the volume turned up to infinity. “I hope you’re on your way home.”

“I am,” Clint says. “And I can’t wait to see you and get back to my boring, retired life.”

“That bad, huh?” Laura asks teasingly. “I’ll make sure I have something waiting when you get home so you’re not starving.” She pauses, and it sounds like she’s moving around, possibly putting down Nathaniel who she’d been holding close to the phone. “So how was it? As bad as you expected?” 

Clint chews on his tongue, watching trees and pavement zip past him. He thinks of Laura, waiting to welcome him with three kids who will no doubt jump on his legs when he walks in the door, of the house that has seemed quiet and loud at the same time in the past few months. He thinks of Natasha, setting things right with the world because that’s what she’s been trained to do, and of the text he had received just before they reached the campsite a few days ago -- _coming home for real food this weekend, have something ready for me_. He thinks of Wanda, of the conversation they’d had when she was deciding whether or not to try living somewhat of a normal life again, worried that with the Raft and the airport fight, her relationship with Vision might be too damaged to work through -- of how she made the decision to go to Scotland anyway because he had told her that nothing, not even stupid petty team fights, were worth giving up love for -- because dammit, he would know. He thinks of Peter, sitting at the kitchen table in his small apartment or maybe sitting on the couch, eagerly telling Aunt May about camping and conversations and hunting rabbits over pizza slices, while sirens from the city proper wailed in the distance.

“It was good,” Clint says finally, looking down as a call waiting beep interrupts his words. He smiles at the sight of Peter’s number. “It was really, really good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @isjustprogress for more fic and flails!
> 
> YMMV, but it's been stated by TPTB that Peter is 15 in the MCU, at least during Civil War -- so I'm keeping that age given that the events of this fic loosely happen less than a year after that whole event.


End file.
